


Sweets for Low Glucose

by VulpesVulpes713



Series: Fictober 2018 [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: FICTOBER2018, First Meetings, Halloween, M/M, Party, diabetic keith, klance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 16:58:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulpesVulpes713/pseuds/VulpesVulpes713
Summary: Prompt:"Take what you need."





	Sweets for Low Glucose

**Author's Note:**

> Yes I am Type 1 Diabetic. This story was written based on my own experiences with Diabetes. It is not meant as a teaching moment. It should not be followed. Please be safe with your health and don't read into this too much. Thanks. :)

In retrospect, the amount of liquor he’d drank prior to the episode should have prevented the drop. That’s how alcohol worked: carbs, sugar…if anything drinking too much was a risk of a high, rather than a low.

 

And it was with such logic that Keith had neglected to bring along anything sweet to the party. He had his pen, sure, but that didn’t help matters much when his levels were already bottoming out.

 

He’d blame the loud music… the awkward vibes, maybe even the lack of adequate party snacks, but whatever the case, ten minutes into his walk back home and his sugar decides to drop.

 

A diabetic drawback if there ever was one.

 

“Shit,” he mumbles as the telltale signs of a low begin. Hands shaky, knees weak, head foggy…it’s like the hangover from his drinking has already begun. But Keith knows better than that. Knows because, despite only recently being diagnosed with Type 1, he’s experienced all sorts of lows to feel when one is about to strike.

 

“Shit, shit-”

 

And of  _course_ he has nothing with him. Usually he does-a Snickers bar, a bag of cherry sours-but isn’t that always the case? Prepared for every moment besides the one that counts?

 

 _It’s okay,_ he thinks hastily, attempting to calm himself lest the stress amplify things.  _You can make it back. It’s not that bad. Just walk slow and don’t over exert yourself._

 

His words, though likely reassuring to anyone else, do next to nothing to ease his rapidly speeding pulse. Because Keith can feel his sugars dropping quicker than he’s used to, and with home a good twenty minute walk away and no buses or taxis within reach, he knows his options are limited should anything dire occur.

 

He’s heard about diabetics who slip into comas if their lows go untreated, and though he doubts his own reaction would reach that extreme, what with him being in a fairly populated residential area and having a good chance of being found in the morning, the thought does little to soothe the panic that accompanies passing out in someone’s lawn.

 

Besides, he’s never slipped unconscious due to his diabetes before. It’s a terrifying reality that he is the least bit ready for.

 

_Fuck…I should have brought a beer with me, or a juice box or something! Fuck!_

 

His head is spinning now, which he thinks is heightened because of the alcohol, but at this point he can no longer tell the difference. Every step is a risk, and the shake in his hands is promptly impacting his arms.

 

He worries what will happen when it reaches his chest.

 

_I gotta call someone-Shiro…_

 

But his phone is dead. Hence why he’s walking in the first place.

 

_FUCK._

 

And then he sees something: a light in one of the houses up ahead and a shadow that passes through it.

 

 _Ah…I wonder…._ But he shakes his head, aggravating the symptoms.  _I can’t just knock on someone’s door at this hour! That’s so rude-_

 

His stomach flips over as a wave of vertigo hits him like punch to the gut, causing Keith to immediately re-evaluate his decision.

 

_Okay…okay yeah._

 

It doesn’t take him that long to reach the house, but the front steps leading up to the door sure make themselves known. Thank god the owner has a handle that Keith uses to hoist himself up, doubting with every heave the strength in his muscles.

 

_Dammit, it’s never been this bad before…_

 

And it’s with that awareness that Keith firmly presses the doorbell, all embarrassment gone in favour of fear.

 

He waits two seconds, thinking it’s longer, before pressing it again.

 

_Shit, they probably went to bed and-_

 

And then the door opens, revealing a very disgruntled looking man in a fashionably blue housecoat.

 

“Dude, seriously? Do you have any idea how late it is?”

 

_Oh…uh…_

 

If Keith’s sugars weren’t nearing negative digits he would be weak in the knees for other reasons. Because  _damn!_  What a guy. Tall, dark skinned, somehow still unfairly attractive despite the gooey face mask decorating part of his face. If only those stunning blue eyes weren’t narrowed in anger.

 

“Like, I know Rolo threw a party and all, but do you guys really feel the need to play ding-dong ditch at this hour?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Keith manages to get out, but the man at the door seems hardly interested.

 

“My brother’s kids are sleeping here. You know how hard it was to get them in bed on Halloween night? Full of piss and vinegar and sugar. Honestly-”

 

_He’s not listening….fuck-_

 

But before Keith can finish his thought his vision blurs, and he nearly slips off the top step as his sense of balance is thrown off.

 

“Ah-” he begins to yelp, but is cut off as hands reach out and grab the front of his jacket, pulling him forward and away from danger. He glances up, or tries to, but his head is so dizzy now that focusing on the stranger supporting his weight is painful.

 

“I need help,” he mumbles, and the tone of the situation changes immediately.

 

“Oh, crap-” the man breathes, adjusting his grip to better hold Keith up as his voice lowers. “What happened? Do you need an ambulance?”

 

“Sugar-”

 

A pause, and Keith can only imagine the expression that accompanies the skeptical tone of voice that follows.

 

“Sugar? Is this…aren’t you a little old for trick-or-treating?”

 

“No-” Keith frowns, entire body feeling as though he’s recently come off a six-hour roller coaster ride. “I’m diabetic. I need sugar-”

 

That does the trick, and the man gasps as he understands.

 

“Jesus dude, you should have started with that!”

 

Keith can only nod as he’s taken inside, helped over the doorstep and situated somewhere in what he guesses to be the kitchen. A light is switched on, and he blinks against it as his newfound headache rages with the subtlety of a forest fire.

 

“Sugar, sugar-” he hears around him, wondering if the man helping him is frantically searching for the right thing. “Don’t you have a glucose injection with you?”

 

“Didn’t bring it,” Keith supplies, lowering his head to the table. “But anything will do. Juice, candy, just…sugar. Please-”

 

Something is placed in front of him, thudding softly against the tabletop and causing Keith to jerk at the sound.

 

It’s a bowl of Halloween sweets, leftover from the night.

 

“Here,” the man says, hurriedly moving towards the cupboard for a glass. “ **Take what you need.** ”

 

Keith swallows dryly, reaching into the bowl to withdraw several bite-sized bars. He wouldn’t typically go for Coffee Crisp on any given day, but he can’t be picky now. Besides, there isn’t much else to choose from, likely because Coffee Crisp tends to be the reject sweet of Halloween treat boxes. That and Rockets, which Keith helps himself to next.

 

“I’m sorry-” he tries to say again as he swallows the candy, hardly chewing as he waits for the sugar to hit him. “I’m-”

 

“Shh,” he’s instructed, and a glass full of orange liquid is placed in front of him. “Don’t worry about it, just drink.”

 

So he does, and the refreshing taste of OJ hits his throat with the promise of stability. He downs it in one go, then again when his saviour refills the cup.

 

It’s on the third glass that he slows, fingers stronger and headache lessening. His levels are rising, and the effects are almost instantaneous.

 

He sighs, loudly apparently, as his host looks over worriedly.  

 

“You feeling better?” he asks. “Sure you don’t need an ambulance or anything? I can call one, or I can drive you to the hospital if you prefer-”

 

But Keith smiles and waves him off, pushing the hair out of his face as he leans back in his chair.

 

“No, thank you,” he whispers, acknowledging the fact that children are sleeping somewhere in the house. “I’ll be good in a few minutes. Just have to wait now.”

 

“You’re sure?”

 

Keith nods, watching the stranger’s eyes scan over him. He likely looks terrible, given that he’s been drinking for most of the night and just suffered one of the worst lows since diagnosis, but the blue eyes of whoever opened the door for him don’t seem to mind. They don’t linger on his clothing, rumpled and booze stained as they are, nor his hair, which Keith is sure must be an absolute mess right now.

 

No. Instead those eyes hone in on his face, analyzing, searching…they hold concern, and Keith is touched.

 

“I-” he starts, clearing his throat when his voice comes out strained. “Thank you, again. I’ve never had such a bad low.”

 

The man watches him for a moment longer, before dipping his head and smiling at the counter.

 

“Ah, no worries dude. My aunt is Type 2, so I know how it is. Or, well, I’ve  _seen_  how it is. I really don’t have any clue. I don’t mean to assume-”

 

“It’s okay,” Keith cuts him off, feelings of unease gradually shifting to gratitude. Maybe something else too, but he doesn’t linger on it. “I’m Keith, by the way.”

 

He extends a hand, which the other takes with a crooked smile.

 

“Lance.”

“Lance,” Keith repeats, adoring the way it rolls off his tongue. But too late he realizes the manner in which he spoke it, all whispery and whatnot, and quickly changes the topic to prevent himself from coming across as creepy. “So this is your house?”

 

Lance nods after a pause, blinking as he does.

 

“Yeah. Or well, my brother’s house. I’m babysitting for him and his wife so they could go out tonight.”

 

“Hmm,” Keith hums, tapping idly at the counter. “I’m just glad you were awake, even though I seem to have interrupted your bedtime ritual.”

 

“My what?” Lance questions, a delicate brow rising high on his forehead. It makes Keith laugh, though he stifles it with his hand, pointing a finger to his own cheek to demonstrate what he means.

 

It takes a moment, but Keith knows when his host clues in. Blue eyes widen, and both hands reach up to cover the section of face that has greyish goop on it: remnants of whatever mask had been in the middle of application.

 

“Oh  _god!_ That’s embarrassing!”

 

And Keith can’t help but laugh now, causing a blush to rise on the other.

 

“Hey, no laughing! I just gave you the rest of the Halloween candy I’d been hoping to save. You owe me,” he’s scolded, and suppresses further noises by glancing around the room.

 

“Meh, they were the reject candies anyway,” he teases, breath coming more easily as his sugar levels climb. “You weren’t missing out.”

 

A gasp, which has him turning his attention back on Lance.

 

“The  _audacity!_ Coffee Crisp is my  _favourite_  chocolate!”

 

“Really?”

 

“Well…okay no,” Lance confesses sheepishly. “It’s just all that gets left, so I’ve gotten used to eating it.”

 

“What a sad life,” Keith chuckles, thanking the remaining alcohol in his system for providing him with the confidence to flirt. “Maybe I can treat you to something better one day.”

 

And yeah…that does the trick  _splendidly._

 

Lance’s cheeks flush scarlet, and he hastily ducks his head and fiddles with a wrapper Keith left on the counter.

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“I want to,” Keith interrupts. “Believe me, I want to.”

 

Lance doesn’t reply, but the growing smile on his face is answer enough. And Keith knows he could probably leave it at that, but with his levels back to normal the buzz of rum takes over, making a strong case for more as it does. And he has to admit he likes seeing this guy blush.

 

“Besides,” he drawls, leaning over the table separating them with a sly grin. “I can’t have the only impression I leave you with one where I’m snuffing down your candy and drinking all your juice. I have better manners than that. I’m diabetic, not diabolical.”

 

Lance giggles at that, which is a sound that has Keith’s chest feeling tight and bubbly. He would almost blame it on another low if he knew any better.

 

“Well, gee, when you put it like that…”

 

“Good, then it’s settled.” Keith stands, reaching for a nearby sharpie and the Coffee Crisp wrapper to write his number on. He hands it to Lance when he does, who stares down at the digits in adorable awe. “Call me tomorrow, when my phone is charged and I’m properly hungover, and we can grab coffee or waffles or something. Or whatever you want.”

 

“You…you’re sure?” Lance asks, hesitant as his fingers tighten around the wrapper. “You really don’t have to thank me-”

 

“I’m sure. It’ll be my treat, to pay you back for these ones,” he gestures to the bowl of candy still sitting on the table, and heads over to the door. “Thanks again Lance!”

 

“Wait-” Lance hurries after him, housecoat billowing behind like a cape. “Do you need a ride? I can drive-”

 

“No, I’m good,” Keith waves him off, opening the door and stepping out. “The fresh air will help clear my head, and I don’t live too far from here.”

 

“Oh,” Lance smiles, leaning against the doorframe. “Alright then. But you should take some candy for the road.”

 

He passes a handful of reject treats into Keith’s hands, which has Keith chucking at the sentiment.

 

“Geesh, don’t I have to say trick-or-treat before you give me candy?”

 

Lance grins, rolling his eyes.

 

“Per Halloween tradition, yes. But I’ll make an exception this time.”

 

“I must be special,” Keith hums, pocketing the treats as he steps down the top stair. “I’ll see you later then?”

 

Lance bites his lower lip, eyes flickering down to the wrapper still in his hand.

 

“Um…yeah. Sure.”

 

“Cool,” Keith winks, because why the hell not, and Lance’s cheeks flare red again.

 

 _I like that,_  he thinks proudly.  _I like that a lot._

 

He leaves then, jumping down off the remaining steps with a lightness in his gait. He turns when on the street, lifting his arm to wave dramatically back at Lance, still standing in the doorway framed by the light that drew Keith to his house in the first place.

 

Lance grins, waving back with a playful shake of his head before closing the door.

 

Keith watches for a moment longer, then turns down the street and starts the walk home. He feels amazing. Better than he thinks possible. Is it because his sugars are back to normal? Maybe. Or can he officially blame alcohol now? Probably that too.

 

Whatever the reason, he hardly feels the frigid Fall air on his face as he walks back, thinking about Lance, tasting Coffee Crisp and Rockets on his tongue, and being oddly grateful that his sugars decided to drop.

 

And though he knows the OJ and candy had a major hand in things, he thinks it was Lance’s sweetness that really cured him.

 

He’s almost looking forward to his next low.


End file.
